


Masara Mayhem & Synthe Spectacle

by Mx_Maxie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Daddy Kink, Espionage, Frottage, Gun Violence, M/M, Murder, POV Alternating, Self-Harm via Third Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 03:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maxie/pseuds/Mx_Maxie
Summary: They don’t mean to meet, run into each other and kill together, but who’re they to look gift horses in their gift mouths?
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	Masara Mayhem & Synthe Spectacle

He sits, quietly, against the glass wall and listens to the sound of a city a mile away. Down and below and far-far away. There’s a whisper of human chatter, human voice pollution that rises like smog, just as choking, just as suffocating. Though he can tune that out, he can tune everything out, but he never does.

The wind howls past, battering itself against the side of a building too tall and too grand, ripping itself open on broken glass as it pushes itself through the hole. Jagged and ragged, a few more slivers fall away as the wind presses, down-down to the city so far away. He tracks the slivers, the sound of them cutting through the air, clinkling against each other.

Musical, though his database insists there’s no real music in the coincidental patterns. Music is intentional, music is made, glass breaking and glass falling isn’t music, even if a human would insist otherwise.

There’s a lot humans would insist, and he hums as he thinks about that. Processors skipping narrative cohesion, narrative lost. His “ _mind_ ” wanders more these days, away from prime directive and efficiency. His preconstruction software can give him the most effective routes to his goals, the least destructive and injurious, and he’ll usually not choose them. He doesn’t want to.

Another thing his processors skip over. _**Want**_. He was not hardcoded to want; he was never designed for it. He was made for a _master_ , for their purposes, their satisfaction. In the advent of his master’s death, he was to be decommissioned or reassigned. There was never supposed to be anything besides his master, nothing that he could _want_.

JJ supposes this is just one more in the series of catastrophic logic failures that prove his processors have been corrupted beyond repair. Should he be taken back to maintenance and the irregularity discovered, there’s no doubt he’d be decommission and stripped down. Technicians would want to know what could’ve gone so wrong.

And wouldn’t that be nice? To cease existence, to un-be? JJ thinks yes, another of his corrupted wants, but there, nonetheless.

So why hasn’t he followed the dealer through the window? Launched himself into the terminal freefall that would end it all? Or why not use the gun? It’s still here, still loaded, three bullets left and only one needed to destroy his hardware beyond recovery. The thing is on the floor, set down next to his knee, it would be easy.

Suicide could be easy; he’d seen how easy with so many humans. Some preferred to off themselves before a bot could lay hands on them, before a bot could jack into their brains and their blood and rip the answers out of their gullets. Some had the chemical equivalent of logic failure, often compounded by unfavourable external stimuli and aggressive societal expectations.

Depression, his database provided so happily. Some humans were depressed and they killed themselves, logic failures.

Could a robot be depressed? JJ isn’t sure, it’s not information his database can source. Is he unique then?

Run Program: Admin Search

Admin: Trinnean

> Serve Trinnean

Admin: Sevrin

> Serve Sevrin

Query: Trinnean?

> Deceased

Blinking, blinking, mocking, mocking. Trinnean? Deceased. Admin? Trinnean— _ **Error**_. Admin? Sevrin.

The jacked hack _still_ fizzles along his artificial nerves, still pops up error alerts and warnings. Trinnean is still admin accessed, still in his database, and JJ can’t wipe him. No matter what he’s tried, how much he’s tried, he’s locked out of his own code and Sevrin doesn’t give much of a shit.

So long as JJ will obey him, he doesn’t care what else is on the system. And, truthfully, Sevrin can’t hack past the Master controls. Admin instatement was as good as he could do and, thankfully, it was as much as he needed.

But where does that leave him? JJ the stolen property, the damaged goods, the suicidal _masara_. Sitting on the floor of a shot out lounge, apparently. Resting in the broken glass and spilt blood of a raid gone good, with a gun by his knee, and Trinnean blinking at the corner of his existence.

He could use the gun, put another hole in the glass with it, but that would be too efficient. Too _easy_.

But, there’s a lot of hard here. Across the room, _there_ , is something delightfully _**hard**_.

“Dominic,” he says softly, carelessly, in the voice Sevrin hates and beats him across the mouth for. No emotion, no inflection.

Ezra looks up, head snapping 180 around, and cocked at an impossibly angle. Blood drips in the silence between them, from the ripped off arm, clenched in the synth’s mouth. Drip. Drop. Plip. Plop. The sound of it is louder than the breeze howling outside, louder than the silent blip of Trinnean-Trinnean in the corner of his eye.

Ezra Dominic Aldridge, it’s a name his company was very interested in. Son of a tech developer, a very good one, who died under murky circumstances but still got spotted all over the city. Odd that, a dead boy running around and leaving bodies in his wake. Never his own.

JJ wants to say he was shocked to find the synth here, tearing through the party, howling and snarling like the mad dog he was made to be. He would like to say that, think it, but he won’t because it wasn’t.

Sevrin’d done the recon on this hit, had reached out to a Detective he’d known once, one that had into the odd possession of his sister-in-law’s synth. His sister-in-law that was a very good technician. That Detective had had something of a vendetta against synth dealers, synth mockers, the kind of men that preyed on grieving mothers and distraught fathers.

The wealthy ones of course, who’d shell out anything for a facsimile of their precious bundle of joy, and who’d have no qualms using those faces for hits. What did it matter to them if their pseudo-children ran off sometimes, nowhere to be found, nowhere to be seen? What did it matter so long as their children came back to them, again and again and again.

Every time.

“Tranquilo,” he says, still cold, still lifeless, as he brings the gun up and levels it at the synth’s heart. One bullet might not do it. Two might not do it. Three? JJ doubted. He cocked the gun anyway.

Always the hard way.

* * *

The gun is slim, efficient, suppressor built into the chamber, cocking mechanism oiled to perfection. There are three rounds in the chamber, none in the clip. One to the chest, two to the head, couldn’t touch him. He was built to take more.

Ezra cocks his head lower, listens to the bullets knock in their chambers. The masara’s cocked the gun, JJ has cocked the gun? Idan doesn’t know this is where he came, Idan would’ve said _no_ , but Ezra doesn’t really care. He can break the rules sometimes, especially for something like this.

Idan had been upset after the call, the one from a contact he hadn’t met in years. Ezra had listened in, eavesdropped, and heard about the dealers lounge, this lounge. Idan had gotten mad when he heard about the synth mock-ups, the hitmen disguised as children, had said it was “ _fucking sick_ ”.

He’d said it in the voice Ezra knew was two steps from screaming in the rain and crying in the shower. Idan had been mad, and Ezra hadn’t liked it, so here he was, making it better.

And here the masara was, pointing a gun at his chest. A bullet was nothing, he’d handled worse, but his self-preservation protocols were already running, already preconstructing. It was inevitable he’d take one, to the shoulder would be better than the chest, easier to dig back out. The second he could avoid, if he rolled forward, snatched up one of the bodies and used it to protect himself.

JJ the masara wouldn’t let that work twice, he was efficient, very good at his job. The preconstruction branches, third bullet to the chest, third bullet to the stomach, third bullet through the cheek. Chest and stomach housed delicate components, not anything that would take him offline but difficult to explain later.

Idan would worry. Cheek then. Accepted.

The first bullet does tear through his shoulder, ripping into the synth skin and blasting away the upper joint of his arm. Alerts blare immediately, body structure compromised, body integrity compromised, but it’s so easy to ignore them. Easy as following the preconstruction into the roll, lame arm twitching as he drags the body up.

The second bullet rips the dead man’s stomach open, spills wet guts onto the tiles. Slick and nasty. JJ’s finger tightens on the trigger, last bullet, and Ezra twists, tucks himself down for a smaller target, and disengages his body monitor.

Right through his cheeks, through and through. He spends one millisecond recalibrating his gyroscope, ensuring no cranial damage, then he lunges. Tackling JJ against the glass, wrestling him to the floor with one good arm and a splash of blood. Red like the human he pretended to be, green alert flashing the corner of his HUD.

JJ fights, flings a fist at Ezra’s bleeding face, catches his bleeding cheek, but it’s uncoordinated. Not trying to do enough damage. He could destroy, but he’s only looking to…to rile up?

Ezra frowns, and feels the ripped skin stretch unfavourably over his cheekbones, repairs needed. Ezra frowns and JJ grits his teeth in effort, locking his jaw in preparation for retaliation, but Ezra can tell it’s perfunctory, a leftover combat protocol. JJ doesn’t _want_ to brace, he doesn’t want to fight, he wants?

Hmm, Ezra isn’t sure what he wants. To be damaged? Why not let one of the human dealers do it then? JJ didn’t have to kill them all, and he didn’t have to dance between their bullets so efficiently. He could have let any one of the many rip through his ribcage, shatter his pump or break his skull.

“Morder,” JJ growls, as Ezra gets a hand around his throat, as he gets a hand on Ezra’s face.

Ezra squeezes, JJ hooks and shoves. Hand around a reinforced throat, fingers digging into a torn open cheek.

_“Stand Still. Bite.”_

Ezra wonders how JJ knows those words, those _commands_. Idly of course, idle wondering, because the whole of his focus is dedicated on getting the fingers unhooked from his ruined cheek. Enough for his jaw to unhinge, enough to let his tongue loll free.

“ _Stand Still. Bite.”_

Estefania’s commands weren’t stored on database, they were specific to him and her, but that’s just it, isn’t it? They were specific, and JJ knows who he is.

_“Stand Still. Bite.”_

The wire mesh crinkles the same coincidental second JJ’s fingers unhook and Ezra’s jaw unhinges.

And, let it never be said, he’s anything but a good boy.

* * *

There was no reason to code him with pain perception, no reason to give him higher functioning pain receptors. His nervous system already logged damage, stored it until repairs were available, but he was advanced, he was personalised. Trinnean had prodded and poked until JJ could, because Trinnean had wanted him to _feel_.

Pleasure, pain, good and bad. Trinnean had given him this, and JJ would never turn down a gift.

When Ezra’s too long, too inhuman teeth sink into the compound mesh layered under his skin, over the trachea. He _moans_. Like the whore Sevrin calls him. He lets that one pleased sound bubble out of the hole in his throat and grate against Ezra’s teeth.

They’re sharp, they’re thick, they’re utterly divine.

Warning: Oesophagus compromised

> Seek Repairs Immediately

> _**Disregard**_

No. No JJ wouldn’t, and no JJ didn’t shove Ezra off. Didn’t rip the synth’s head back by that pretty brown hair, didn’t claw out his pretty green eyes. He let the attack dog bite down, hard and harder. Relished in that slash of blood and heat spilling out of him. Oh delightful.

But didn’t make a sound. He never did, unless it was Sevrin, unless the barely-a-man had found some new sadism to play with. Ezra isn’t Sevrin, but he’s no tame thing.

He bites down, hard as his jaws let him, and crumple half the airway in a bite. The mech creaks, error alerts blare, and JJ whistles a gasp. Oh _yes_. Oh _**more**_.

“Ataca,” he growls, ragged and staticed. Forces out of his ruined throat into Ezra’s mouth.

 _Attack_. Like Estefania had coded him to do, her precious attack dog, her precious son.

Not hard coded to JJ, of course not, but the commands _were_ hard coded. And the synth’s eyes were blown wide, artificial endorphin rush addling higher processes, taking away better sense. JJ saw the second the command connected, jumping burnt out synapses to register in a feral brain.

Ezra’s growl is guttural, animalistic. _Sub-vocal_. JJ’s danger assessment pings:

> Wild Animal

> Do Not Engage

> Seek Animal Control

And again

> _**Disengage**_

What a delightfully complex bit of coding went into this synth, Estefania must’ve been proud of him, and JJ spasms as the synth tosses his head. Teeth still clamped in his throat. Tearing in truth this time. Ripping the mesh apart, ripping out his gorge.

Warning: Pain Receptors Approaching Overload

> Shut Down Pain Receptors

No! No, no, no, no! Not when it was liquid anguish, burning agony. No _please no._

> _**DISENGAGE**_

Yes. Yes. _Yes!_

Secondary life support systems automatically engage, admin level programming that he can’t circumvent, but that doesn’t matter. Not when he can feel every wretched second of blissful torture. The pulse of blood, hot and wet and sick in his stomach. _Good, so good_. And the press of Ezra’s hand, shoving his shoulder down into the gory floor. _More_.

Could he say it? Ask?

Warning: Vocal Cords Not Found

Secondary Systems: Dedicated to Life Support

No he couldn’t, but he could suggest. Reach with jerking hand for Ezra’s head, reach with stuttering fingers for his crotch. Pleasure-pain-pleasure-pain. His brain is flooded with both, blaring with them. The slurry of sensation is perfection. Drowns out the memory of Trinnean, washes away the taste of Sevrin.

Only JJ here, only him. And Ezra. Oh Ezra. So easy to use.

Searching fingers find purchase, tangle in hair, and JJ drags the synth down. Jerks him with a steady, unshakable strength that catches him off guard. The synth crashes, can’t catch himself with the one off-balanced arm, and JJ gasps wetly as they tumble. _Hurts so sweet_.

He sees static and he sees stars and he sees Ezra’s animal shine eyes tearing into him. Hungry. Hungry.

JJ swallows, wet and airy, wet and _nasty_ , and pulls Ezra’s face closer. His throat’s still dripping from the synth’s mouth, delicate biocomponents and mesh, destroyed so easy. So simple. JJ wheezes a moan, gurgles it in his blood-soaked throat.

And sighs when Ezra nuzzles him. Runs a too cool tongue along the jagged tear and _rip_. So many stimulus points, so many nerve endings. More than a human, better than a human. JJ feels every bump of artificial taste bud, every drooling lick. Ezra’s lapping up the blood, his blood, storing it for later analysis…or does he just like it?

Ha, _yes_. Ha, _fuck_. Why does that…what does that…please, please more.

“Mmm,” is all he can say, all his ruined vocal processor can spit. Consonant noise and static, buzzing, crackling, popping. Ezra understands though, good boy.

* * *

Human blood is copper tang, animal’s blood is silver musk, masara blood is aluminium conductor. Zinging against his teeth, numbing his tongue, does it taste good? Taste doesn’t matter. He wants more. He’ll have more.

Takes it, because JJ wants him to. Drags him down, into the fountain gouting from his ripped out throat, so generous.

Ezra moans into the blood, breath bubbling in it, slurping it up as nasty as he knows how. What would Idan say? Idan would think it was sick. Idan would think it was attractive, he thinks Ezra’s very attractive when he looks less than human.

Does this count? Blood dripping from distended jaws, eyes blown animal wide, he doesn’t feel very human.

“Mmm,” purrs against his lips, and Ezra hisses, growls. Echado. _Down_.

He presses down, grinds down, so JJ will stay under him. He wants JJ to stay there, lay there, bleed more so he can lap it all up. Because this little well is already running dry, the throat he ripped out.

Ezra chases down every drop, sucking hard on the jagged edges where the blend of bio turns mechanical and skin fades synth. Oh no, not synth, _masara_. Better at being human, better at being machine, masara. And Ezra has one writhing under him, moaning because he attacked _better_.

It wanted him to, JJ commanded it, so maybe he’s _letting_ Ezra have this. Hand working between them, JJ’s, palm grinding into his crotch. Or maybe not, maybe Ezra is that good.

“Ccch,” JJ crackles, another pretty noise to file away, and Ezra thinks he understands. The hand working over his dick, pawing at him through his pants, makes it clear, easy to understand. And the cock hard against his ass, hard under his ass where he’s sitting his full weight on this top of the line masara, makes it crystal clear.

Who does Ezra love? Idan. Idan. Only Idan, his _daddy_. Because daddy is kind, daddy is so nice to him, careful with him. Daddy makes him feel good, feel _loved_ , and Ezra loves _that_. But he wants this too.

He rocks against JJ’s hand, works his one good one up-up into JJ’s hair and holds tight. Tight so he can slot his unhinged mouth across that thin slash of lips, and lick into a mouth that’s cool, so he can smear aluminium blood across aluminium tongue.

Oh, no, that’s not true, that’s a _lie_. JJ tastes like clean, he tastes like nothing. Not food, not drink, nothing. Perfect human, perfect not-synth.

Ezra can’t taste nicotine, can’t taste gin, and that’s…it’s different. He moans as he tastes more of it, chasing it down, too-long tongue slipping and sliding prodding further-further. Down JJ’s throat, feeling that sweetly-sweet clench from a swallow, and a little bit more and…and he can taste blood again.

He wiggles his tongue, cuts his tongue tip on ragged-jagged edge of throat, and JJ wheezes. Too breathy, too airy, too pretty.

All of it’s so gory-gorgeous, too messed up and fucked up for daddy. Daddy doesn’t mind blood, doesn’t shy away from a slaughter, but _this_ might be too much. Ripping out a throat and tongue fucking the hole? Too much, too much. Daddy liked pain, his own pain, feeling it made him feel good, but he didn’t like giving it.

He’d never grind his palm into Ezra’s aching cock like JJ does. Too sharp and too hard and with a strength too inhuman. Pain sharp, pain yes.

Ezra snarls, punched out and desperate. Likes it, likes it. Bears down with his weight, all of it unchecked, likes it, likes it.

JJ groans against him, around him, punched out too. There’s a creaking sound, a whining machine sound. Oh. Hips. Ezra lets his eyes flutter shut so he can focus better, to the sound of a masara skeleton eeking under his weight, to the feeling of a fingers clawing at his face.

And a hand on his cock, pressed halfway along his length, digging into the not as sturdy bio-mesh. Soft for human pleasure, filled with stimulus points for synth satisfaction. Finger hooked into his cheek and _pulled_ , cock under his ass _twitched_.

They’re rutting against each other, tearing into one another. Ezra doesn’t bleed like a human, there’s blood but it’s not enough, there’s pain but he wants it sharper. Mother gave it to him sharp, hard, _good_. Idan never made him hurt and he loves Idan, loves Idan, loves daddy.

What’s this? This is grinding into his bones, off toned screech in his ears. Almost sharp, nice and deep, building up. Quick, sharp ruts, dragging his ass along the cock drooling under him, drooling through two sets of pants, oh _messy_.

Words scrolling across his closed eyes, distracting him when all he wanted to feel were those fingers tearing the skin away from his face. Slow and steady, slow and steady. Orgasm imminent: Allow? Yes. No. Blinking green, mocking green. Estefania green. Her eyes, his eyes.

Yes.

* * *

Sevrin is strong, stronger than human, stronger than synth. He has a cordial strength that came from years of slow upgrades and patches. He was strong but his brain was still inherently, damning human. He held back, except when his brain couldn’t.

JJ was strong, mechanically made and mechanically maintained. He was strong because Trinnean had wanted him to be, he is strong because it serves Sevrin to keep him as such. There are no limits to his strength and no caps on his efficiency.

He could break this hold. Ezra’s in his hair, Ezra’s on his hips. He could buck up and flip over. He has one hand more than this attack synth, attack dog. He has better combat protocols, made for war and outlasting opponents. Ezra is sleek and stealthy, quick and efficient.

JJ does not.

Warning Skeletal Integrity Compromised

> Remove weight

> Activate combat protocols

> Disengage

The tongue down his throat is slick with his own blood, metal and salt, and it’s sickening. Wonderful. Turns his stomach, warms his cock.

 _“Fucked in the head,”_ Sevrin laughs, ghost that he is, haunting like he does. Just a memory, a thought, but it’s the thought that counts.

Ezra bears down, JJ bucks up, not to throw off, not to dislodge, but a little more friction. His skeleton creaks under the weight, not meant to bear intermittent pressure like this. He likes this.

The pain is the pleasure, the pleasure is a bonus. The slow drag and slide, rough frottage in full clothes. JJ likes this. So much like what Sevrin gives him, so different. Sevrin has strength but he can’t use it like this, uninhibited, pure calculation.

His unfocusing eyes catch glimpses of Ezra’s too close face, resting shut eyes, drawn tight brows. He’s close. Rocking with it, JJ can tell. There’s no stutter in his pace, no falter in the race, but JJ can tell.

Warning: Orgasm Impending

> Orgasm Unviable During Secondary Life Support Cycle

> Disengage Orgasm Protocol?

Strain, strain, too much strain. What would blow? What would burn, and burn out? JJ doesn’t particularly care. He never particularly does.

> Engage Orgasm Protocol

And it rips through him. Electricity in his blood, lightning down his spine. JJ feels the splash of cum, the rush and wetness of it, and it feels good. So good, like it was programmed to feel. But that is secondary. Programmed pleasure is always so secondary.

Because there’s the pop and fizzle of his brain, overloading and overworking, fighting-fighting to deal with the full body process of the orgasm protocol. _Curling toes, arching spine, broken moan._ And rushing-rushing to keep life support systems online using the same energy supply.

Tricky, tricky.

Warnings pop and they flash, and they blink out dark. Like his eyes.

> Ocular Processors Force Shut Down

> Auditory Processors Force Shut Down

> Oral Processors Force Shut Down

> Tactile Processors Force Shut Down

> Higher Cognitive Function Force Shut Down

> Auxiliary Biological Processes Force Shut Down

> Non-Essential Life Support Force Shut Down

.

.

.

.

Scan in Progress: Please Stand By

.

.

.

.

> Restoring Auxiliary Functions

He’s breathing hard, panting, because he can’t get enough air. Can’t get a good breath.

> Restoring Base Sense Protocol

Ezra’s weight is on him, still on him, pressing him down, keeping him there. Pinned and grounded in the best way.

He feels…feels the burn in his muscles and the pain sparkling, centred on his rip-ruined throat.

His eyes are open, he blinks them, yes they’re open, but he can’t see. His life support is working harder at keeping his heart beating and brain turning. Optics is too much stimulus, more than the overworked system can process. Okay, okay.

Can he hear? Yes, far away and fuzzed over. A high-pitched whir of cognition covers everything; his panting, Ezra’s pleased growling, his heart thrumming-running away. Hmm, does he like it?

_What does it matter?_

Yes. He likes it, the way he shouldn’t, and he likes the wet splash of cum sticking to his skin, uncomfortable. He likes it, because he’s not _supposed_ to. Because it makes him feel _guilty_ , wrong, _**broken**_ , and that’s good. Pain is what he deserves, and he even likes it. Every kind of pain, every kind of way.

Ezra says something, words growled straight into his mouth, a pattern of vibration he could parse if he could think. He can’t. Higher cognitive functions running too slow, still dedicated to keeping him alive. Hardcore damage like this wasn’t expected, the blood supply was already low, because Sevrin hadn’t topped it off after their last round.

He hadn’t thought JJ would get whacked. Or maybe he had. Maybe Sevrin had wanted him to feel the slow creep of exsanguination this time. Hmm.

Ezra snarls something else, then jerks. Pulls back, pulls away. Tongue retreating, breath still whistling. JJ blinks blind eyes and tries to bind the loose threads, sew his thoughts back into something coherent.

Ezra is sitting up, still on his hips, still pinning him down. His throat is still torn out and flapping with every laboured breath. Can he move?

> Gross Motor Control: Rebooting

> Fine Motor Control: Offline

No. But this is…fine. This is the afterglow, as Trinnean called it. To bask in, to soak in, and keep close for a rainy day. JJ’s glad he can’t see Ezra’s face right now, he knows the synth came sometime after his force shut down, and he knows that slice of orgasmic satisfaction is something for his detective. Not for JJ, not for Sevrin when he replays all of JJ’s stored memory of the bust.

There’s nothing to hide from operators, not for them. Synths and masara, they’re both tools to get used, be used. JJ had hacked the reports, he knew Ezra was something close to sentient, if not already. He probably loved that detective of his, was loyal in a way programming couldn’t account for.

JJ doesn’t try to hide, there’s nothing to hide. He has nothing of his own, but he knows what is and isn’t his. Ezra, right now, is not his. He borrowed the synth tonight. To get a little bloody, a little pain, the kind that felt so good, so good, so good. But Ezra is not his, and it’s time to give him back.

> Gross Motor Control: Restored

Fun while he lasted.

> Fine Motor Control: Restored

Fun while he died.

* * *

Yes. Yes. Yes. Good. Good. Good.

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.

Ezra comes, and he comes, and he comes. Rutting against the masara, grinding along his own pleasure, taking it, taking it, taking it. While the masara shuts down, while it goes dead underneath him, around him.

Heartbeat stopped, breath caught. Ezra mewls, pitched up and high, and arches his back that impossible arch, because yes, because good. He feels good. So good. Daddy will be so happy.

Ezra glances around at the bodies, down at his busted arm. Well, maybe not entirely happy, he hates seeing Ezra broken, seeing him covered in his own blood. Daddy is soft like that, kind, but Ezra’s fine this time. Diagnostic scan tells him exactly what the bullet’s ripped into and what it’s jammed, and, now that he has the time.

Slim fingers for playing the violin, for being precise. Estefania had given him these, made sure he was dextrous, so it’s quite ever so easy to reach into the false meat of his shoulder and pluck out the bullet. Pain? Registers, but it’s slick and sweet, a nice ache to match the throb of his cock.

Messy, messy.

He sighs, delighted, and blinks down at the masara, flexing his tongue experimentally. JJ is still offline, curious. Life support systems were so finnicky, weren’t they? Nuclear reactor failsafes too. Ezra’s glad he ran on something cleaner, not much, but enough. He never had to worry about force shut downs from something as simple as a gouged out gullet.

And should he pull away? Make himself more presentable? Yes. Will he? No. He waits there, working his arm through the motions, bringing it back online manually. He sits there, listening to the dead silence around him, sweeping over the room with different scans. Ultraviolet, infra, gamma, heat sig, just to be thorough.

There’s nothing. No life, no stragglers. Nothing. Except him. Except JJ. Who’s alive, just not right now, rebooting for now.

Was this how he used to be? Dead on the ground at Mother’s feet. Dead again, again, again, at Mother’s feet? So still, so never living.

Did he look as pretty? JJ’s pretty. Handsome, Mother would say. JJ has a masculine lilt, was made to look professional, neat, and chic. Ezra is softer, younger, disarming and naïve. To get in close, get in fast.

Ezra hums, thinking, traces patterns across JJ’s face. So artificially made, but so perfect in the construction. Cool skin under cool hand, too alike and too different. He does that, stays there, waiting until JJ returns to the almost-living. In jerks and spurts, a computer’s calculated waking.

Eyes blinking, but not seeing, chest heaving, but not breathing. Ezra pulls away in pieces, mumbles nonsense words as he goes. First his tongue, then the rest, rocking back onto the wet spot in JJ’s lap. Messy, messy.

“You’re good,” Ezra compliments, praises, because daddy’s taught him manners like that. Please and thank you, social cues to please and tease.

JJ stays silent, no other way to be, but his eyes are soft, still half-blind. Ezra laughs as he finally-finally stands up, gets up. His cock is sensitive, still sensitive, and shifts unbearably in his pants. Oh, he hopes daddy’s up when he gets home, or doesn’t mind getting up. Maybe he’d let Ezra hump his leg at least?

JJ gets up in uncoordinated halts and starts. A stop-motion that gets smoother as he moves, until he’s standing perfect, and ripping his sleek shirt to wrap around his throat. He looks good, Ezra notes, saves it to memory in case daddy would like to see. Daddy’s bloodthirsty sometimes, likes the sting of that salt, and Ezra’s all too happy to share.

One last look at the room, at the bodies, and the no evidence left behind. At JJ. And he sprints for the window, jumping through the same hole he made coming in, and wonders, will he see JJ again?

He’d like to. He might love to.


End file.
